“Would you stab me again if I saidyou?”
My core tightens. “Yes.”
“Worth it.”
“Stop.”
“Do you want me to stop?” His breath is warm as he presses his body closer, and I swear I can feel the thumping of his heart through our layers of clothes. My breathing picks up, chest tight against the weight of him, the scent of him flooding my senses—leather, smoke, something darker.
“Why are you here, Jax?” I ask, more in denial than anything else. The last thing I want is to give him the satisfaction of breaking me down, to admit that I like his body against mine.
His proximity is suffocating. Every nerve screams to get away, but every cell in my body is aware of him. That hardness pressed against me, the way his breath hovers over my skin. He’s one move away from crushing me into submission.
He suddenly sighs and steps back. Relief floods me as I’m met with cold air, but it takes a second to peel myself off the wall. My legs feel weak as I turn to face him, confusion in my brows.
Under the orange street lamp, I get my first glimpse of the tear in his shirt where I swung my knife, and holy fuck, he’s pouring blood. It’s dripping down his arm, red rivulets snaking down and landing in droplets on the sidewalk.
“I’m fine,” he says when he notices my widened eyes.
“You sure? ‘Cause that looks pretty bad.” I wince, tying my fingers into a knot even though I know I shouldn’t have any remorse.
“You should see the other guy.” He smirks, eyes roaming over me.
Looking down at myself, I straighten my jacket and raise my chin. I push my hair back, hoping like hell that my cheeks don’t look as flushed as they feel, and cross my arms.
He chuckles and shakes out his hand, a smattering of blood hitting the concrete. “Get in the car, Kira.”
Chapter Eighteen
Jax
Bleeding and going on seventy-two hours with no sleep, all because I wanted to give a girl a ride home. And what kind of girl closes up a bar by herself and walks home alone at four a.m.? Fucking Kira Noland, that’s who. The idea that she’s been doing this for years almost makes me wish she had stabbed me deeper; at least then I would have some peace of mind that she could hold her own. I’m not saying she didn’t put up a fight, but she couldn’t stop me, and I wasn’t even trying to hurt her.
“You’re getting blood everywhere,” she huffs from the passenger seat.
I raise a brow and glance down. Dark red drips into the seams of the seat belt, and I track the smears to the key in the ignition and my bloody prints on the touchscreen. I shrug as my hand slips in it, turning the wheel. “Nothing my car hasn’t seen before,” I say.
She rolls her eyes but leans over the center console. “Just let me look at it.” She sounds exasperated, even though she’s the one who did it.
“Feelin’ guilty?” My cheek lifts as she paws at my shirt, trying to push up my sleeve.
“No. You’re driving, and I don’t want you to faint from blood loss at the wheel.”
That’s a stretch, considering I can feel plenty of blood in my system—pumping straight down my pants at her proximity. Her fingertips are gentle, and I have no problem letting her do what she needs to feel better about stabbing me. Even if I have to clench my jaw to stop from pulling her into my lap. She would probably hit me, and then we really would crash.
“It’s deep.” Her voice is quiet, and I don’t have to take my eyes off the road to hear the frown in it.
“I’m fine, buttercup.” She doesn’t need to worry about me. I’ve been stabbed, shot, strangled, broken, and concussed. Name it, and I’ve handled it.
She clicks her tongue and pulls her own sleeve down, wrapping it around her finger and dabbing at the wound. “Do you have any gauze in here?”
“Do I look like the type to carry a first aid kit?” I angle my chin down, her hair tickling my face.
Her lip twitches. “Right. You only carry gasoline to burn bodies.”
Is that—is that a smile she’s trying to suppress? Well, fuck me. I’ll take a stab any night to see that. I drink it in, unable to control my own grin as she examines my shoulder. She really is gorgeous, even if she is exceptionally pale right now. The urge to start a line and give her my blood fills me. She could drain me dry, and I’d die a happy man just to see some color in her cheeks.
“I think you need stitches,” she sighs, pressing the fabric of her sleeve against the wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding.
